Beloved Wife
by ericajanebarry
Summary: As Richard and Isobel face an illness, the professional collides with the personal. Angsty-fluffy; rating jump to M.
1. Even the best fall down sometimes

**A/N: Hello, lovely readers! I have missed you. Life is ... a lot, recently. Summertime, kids around, big changes on the horizon. My time has not been my own since June 3rd. Sure, I've published bits here and there since then, but I've not had the hours of writing time several days a week to which I'd grown accustomed.**

 **This is a fic I've been working on for the better part of a month. It was inspired by a migraine headache, of all things, that took me out of commission for several days. A few months ago I wrote a Chelsie piece for the "In Sickness" Tumblr prompt and since then I've been pondering how Richobel would handle an illness, being the medically-minded folk they are. Having a sister who is a nurse working in pediatric oncology, I know that in her experience sick kids are one thing when they are her patients ... there is protocol; this drug treats that cancer, and there are antibiotics for pneumonia and transfusions for sickle cell. But it's quite another when one of her boys is ill. We have had many conversations in which she, with an RN and nearly 10 years' experience in the field, is every bit as much the paranoid mama as I am.**

 **So I've taken that premise and applied it to Richobel. Ultimately this is an angsty-fluffy exploration ... no characters were harmed in the writing of this fic. It was going to be one long piece, but I've taken a liking to shorter multi-chapter works lately. And if I'm honest, I'm just really itching to get something off the shelf and published. So this will (hopefully) all be wrapped within a week's time, because I've got a Chelsie piece to finish and Brief Encounters bits that keep popping into my head.**

 **Title was inspired by the Natalie Merchant song that wouldn't leave me alone once I started contemplating how Richard sees Isobel. Chapter titles are also taken from song lyrics; this one is from Howie Day's song "Collide."**

 **Rating starts out low and will climb. We're headed for NSFW territory in a couple of chapters, folks. Fasten your seatbelts. ;)**

 **As always, a word or two in review would set me up forever.**

 **xx,**

 **~ejb~**

* * *

He has been watching her all day. She would laugh if he told her so. "Of course you have," she'd say. "Whenever don't you?" And she'd be correct; for years now she has been in his eyes, subtly and from afar at first, and with less discretion now that she is his wife. He makes no apologies for it and she makes only a cursory pretense of it upsetting her. The fact is she can _feel_ his eyes on her. She always has done, and it gives her life.

But not today. There is something not quite right about her, though she'd be horrified if she knew he'd noticed. All day she has made the rounds, going from bed to bed and checking patients' vitals, chatting to them about how they are feeling and gracing them all with her calming, assured presence. She has inventoried supplies and verified with her nurses that their charts are current, and to all appearances it seems a typical day in the life of Nurse Isobel Clarkson.

The signs are subtle, so that unless one has made a careful study of her they'd miss them. But he had seen it … the way she'd hung onto the doorframe after she and a junior nurse transferred a patient from the wheelchair to his bed, the way her fingers kneaded the back of her neck as she stood reviewing charts.

It is at the end of their shift, when he walks into their office to find her sat at her desk reviewing paperwork in the fading light of evening, that he can no longer deny she is unwell. He switches on the light and she cries out as if pained.

"No, Richard, shut it off! _Please!_ "

He does so and comes to her side, dropping to his knees. He takes her hand in his, feeling for her radial pulse, which is a bit too rapid for his liking. Pressing his palm to her forehead, he finds her skin clammy, and when he lifts her chin to look into her eyes, he can see dark smudges beneath them.

"Isobel, what is it? Is it your head, love?"

She nods minutely, wincing in discomfort.

"How long?" he asks. She glances at him uncomfortably. "Isobel, I said, _how long?_ "

"Since this morning," she replies quietly.

"This _morning?!_ " he roars, and his volume makes her grimace. Lowering his voice, he continues on. "Fool woman, why didn't you tell me? Have you taken anything?"

She gives another tiny nod. "I took a powder before we left the house, and another just after luncheon. And I didn't tell you because you'd have insisted I stay in bed, and I know how shorthanded we are. Oh, Richard, please don't let's argue. I'm afraid I haven't the strength."

That gets his attention, and he looks her over carefully. "Your vision … is it obscured?"

"Yes, it's as if there's something in my eyes and I can't blink it away."

"I see. And you're quite reactive to both light and sound."

"Yes, and love, please don't take this the wrong way but if you'd be so good as to talk a bit … _less_ … It's all rather _much_ at the moment."

He smiles ironically, knowing that she must be in absolute agony for his words to be grating on her. "It's a good job I love you so or I might take offense at that," he teases lightly.

"Richard," she says sadly, leaning forward to press a kiss to the center of his palm and then resting her cheek in it. "I love you. I'm sorry I didn't say I was unwell this morning but you know how I hate to let you down."

"Darling," he whispers out of consideration for her head, "you could never let me down. Not ever. I'm going to go for the car, because you're in no condition to walk home." He rises and goes to the cot in the back corner of the office, turning back the covers. "And I want you to lie here until I return." He helps her to her feet and maneuvers her to sit down on the cot, removing her shoes. Cradling her head in the crook of his arm, he eases her back until she lies down and then pulls the covers up over her. He goes to the sink and comes back with a cold cloth, wiping her face with it before folding it in thirds and laying it across her forehead.

"Is there anything else I can get you before I go?" he asks gently, crouching down next to her and pressing his lips to her temple.

"Is there a clean basin about?" She blinks up at him painfully. "I'm sorry … my stomach …"

He presses a finger to her lips. "Shh … of course." He rummages through the supply closet until he finds one, placing it on the floor beside her. "I shan't be more than twenty minutes, love. You lie still and rest."

She lies in the dark, silent room as her stomach churns and pulses of blue and silver light sizzle behind her eyelids in time with the beating of her heart. One moment she is chilled to the bone and the next she feels as if she's burning up, and when she sits up to kick off the covers the world seems to tilt on its side. She grabs the basin just in time and retches until she can no longer stay upright. As she falls back onto the thin mattress, tears spill from her eyes unbidden and she prays for relief, caring not at the moment what form it takes.

It is in this state that Richard discovers her upon his return, and turned away from him as she is he can't be certain whether she is conscious until he hears her tiny, plaintive sobs.


	2. Quietly she lays and waits for sleep

**A/N: I really love and am most grateful for the sweet reviews! You all are the loveliest readers a girl could ask for. The song that inspired the title of this chapter is "Wait For Sleep" by Dream Theater. If you've the opportunity it's worth a listen (easily found on YouTube) as it rather masterfully captures the Richard and Isobel I had in mind with this chapter.**

 **xx,**

 **~ejb~**

* * *

 _Dear God._ He hadn't realized she was this poorly. But this is not the time to allow vain imaginations to carry him away. He has seen many patients through headaches like hers and as alarming as they can be, the fact is that they are temporary. His training takes over, and after feeling for her pulse and listening to her breath sounds he empties the basin and sits down on the cot beside her, urging her gently into his arms. He wipes her face with a cold cloth once more and helps her on with her shoes.

"Come on, darling. Let's get you home." He assists her in standing up and ducks under her arm so that she can lean against him.

He hands her into the car and sets off for the cottage, but they only make it roughly the length of a cricket pitch before she grabs his forearm. "I need you to stop," she says through clenched teeth, her left hand clutching the door handle. No sooner has he pulled the car to a stop but she jumps out, her stomach heaving in protest. He steps out to shield her from the view of passers-by, but she waves him off when he approaches to offer help. She has her pride, after all, and if he thinks she's a damned fool to wield it at a moment like this he bites the inside of his cheek and keeps it to himself, passing her his handkerchief when she is finished.

She accepts his arm for support getting back into the car after he sees her begin to stumble. This time he shoots her a look.

 _This is not the time to be proud._

And once he is seated behind the wheel again, he pulls her toward him until she leans her head on his shoulder. "Close your eyes, love," he says softly. "We'll be home momentarily." She leans into him and he listens as she breathes deeply, inhaling through her nose and exhaling through her mouth to calm her stomach. When he pulls into the drive and makes to get out he is halted by her fingers clutching at the sleeve of his jacket.

"Richard, I just … I need a moment."

"Anything for you." He kisses her forehead and takes her hand in his, brushing his thumb over the back of it soothingly. He has to work to hold back a smile as she cautiously opens one eye to test whether the world has stopped spinning. She may be in absolute agony, but she is darling. He will leave it for another time to tell her so, however.

"All right," comes her voice timidly after several minutes, and she gives his hand a tiny squeeze.

When they make it inside, he stops her at the foot of the stairs. "Are you up for that? Wouldn't you rather the couch, darling?"

She attempts to shake her head but is stopped by a stabbing pain behind her right eye. "I need our bed," she asserts, pressing the heel of her hand into her eye socket.

He nods, acquiescing. "Slowly." He stays a step behind her as they make their ascent. She pauses several times to lean on the wall as vertigo turns the stairwell on its side. Her limbs feel leaden. _Have the stairs gone and multiplied?_ she wonders breathlessly at the halfway mark.

He catches her hand just inside the doorway to their bedroom. _Let me_ , his eyes say as she moves to undress. She nods, one corner of her mouth lifting in a tiny smile of thanks. He strips her down to her camisole and knickers and guides her to sit on the edge of the bed, where he removes her shoes and stockings and then moves to draw the curtains. Even the setting sun is a rude assault on her eyes at the time being, and he watches her countenance soften as the room is cloaked in darkness.

He returns to her side, shucking off his jacket and shoes and rolling his shirtsleeves to the elbows. Sitting back against the headboard, he beckons her to sit between his legs, helping her to lie back against his chest. Extracting her hairpins one by one, he gently unwinds each curl and then runs his fingers through the great cascading mass of waves.

He massages her scalp, drawing his fingers firmly from the top of her head toward her temples and back. As he repeats the motion he notes with gratitude the way her facial expression relaxes, the furrow between her brows smoothing. He continues his ministrations and feels the tension leave her little by little.

His touch is a benediction, steady and soft in such perfect measures that tears spill from the corners of her tired eyes. "Richard," she slurs, fatigue heavy in her voice, "thank you, darling. I'm so sorry."

He presses his lips to her temple. "Hush now, beauty. You've nothing to apologize for. You must rest. I love you."

"Love you," she murmurs, her body giving up the fight as it goes limp against his.

 _Sweet angel of mercy,_ he thinks, _she's asleep._ As he lays her down he could swear she lets go a sigh of relief. He lies beside her for several minutes, smoothing her hair, until he is certain she will not stir, and when he is satisfied he kisses her cheek and leaves her to rest.

Venturing downstairs, he stands in the middle of the kitchen, utterly lost. It's not that he doesn't know what to do - Isobel runs the house for the most part but he was on his own here thirty years before she came to be his. No, it's that for the moment he feels well and truly helpless.

 _It's only a headache_ , he tells himself. A severe one, granted. But nothing from which she won't recover.

 _But suppose one day it's not so simple?_

He thinks of the patients he has lost. Early on in his career he learned, as physicians do, to distance himself from the losses. A small measure of self-preservation is necessary for the good of one's patients. But that doesn't mean he has been unaffected by their deaths. Particularly harrowing for him have been the times he has had to watch a husband lose his wife. That's not to say it isn't dreadful to watch a widowed wife grieve, but it's been his observation that a wife fares better after the death of her husband than a husband does when suddenly he finds himself without his wife.

 **oOoOo**

His wife. _His_ wife. Isobel. So absorbed in his work had he been for decades that the business of courting and marrying had eluded him. He was, for all intents and purposes, wedded to Downton Cottage Hospital, and in a village as small as Downton it wasn't as if he'd had a great many prospects. That is, until the sinking of the Titanic had left the Earl of Grantham without an heir and a scouring of the countryside had turned up Matthew Crawley and his mother from Manchester.

He can hardly remember now a time when he didn't love her. As flabbergasted as he'd been when she'd shown up to tour the hospital and then moments later asserted her expertise as a physician's widow to insist that Mr. Drake's dropsy be treated by injecting adrenaline into his heart, he had also fallen irrevocably in love with her in that moment.

While it had taken many years for his love of her to come to fruition, in his mind and in his heart she had owned him from the moment his shaking hand had taken that vial from hers. How swiftly she had become indispensable to him - as a nurse with many years of experience and an assured, empathetic way with patients, as a sounding board and debate partner, her intellect as sharp as her tongue. Medicine was as much in her blood as in his, and she clearly loved the hospital and her patients every bit as much as he did.

She had not been close to anyone since the death of her husband - it had been her experience that while most people were quick to react to her strongly-held opinions, none could be bothered to _listen_ and discover why she believed what she did. But _he_ listened, and not only when she spoke of medical matters but of those close to her heart as well. By the summer before her first grandchild was to be born they had become the closest kind of friends, and there were inklings of a deeper affection surfacing. With the Granthams away at Duneagle, they had seen no reason to refrain from having supper together most nights.

It had been fear that had caused her to answer him as she did on the evening of the Thirsk fair when he, fortified by no small measure of liquid courage, had asked her whether she had ever thought of marrying again. The truth of the matter was that _of course_ she had entertained thoughts of remarriage … _to him_ … because she was in love with him and - if she were honest with herself - had been nearly from the outset. But what nonsense! In love, at her age? That phrase brought to her mind images of dance cards and stolen kisses and her mum waiting below in the carriage.* Courtship was the province of the young. What was more, could she risk giving her heart to a man again, when there was the chance she could lose him?

Alas, the decision had been taken out of both of their hands entirely with the sudden, tragic death of Matthew. In the hours and days and weeks that followed, Richard's had been the arms into which Isobel had literally fallen, his the only comfort she would accept and the only presence she could even tolerate. The delights that one typically associates with courtship - the dinners and dancing and walking out together - did not begin to feature until after they were wed, and their first desperate kisses had come in her darkest, most desolate hours. To all appearances it would likely have seemed as if they were having their relationship backwards.

But to the two of them, there was no progression more natural … after all, their hearts had belonged to one another from 1912. And once her healing had begun, the love that saved her life had become the love that both of them felt certain had been written for them from the start.

For Richard in particular, Isobel's love gave a new sense of purpose and direction to the life he had led. It was in the way she understood the long hours unquestioningly, yes, but it was so much more; the way she would listen when he needed to talk through a patient's course of treatment, the cases she took off his hands, freeing him to see to those most pressing. It was in the suppers she fixed and then held for him, the tumbler of whisky pressed into his hands as she pillowed his head on her chest in front of the fire after a fifteen-hour shift. She was the woman he had been made to love; the one made to love him. It had all become clear - the lifetime he had spent largely in solitude had been no accident; it had been to prepare his heart to love her.

 **oOoOo**

And oh! How he loves her. In his eyes never was a woman born more selfless, kind, compassionate, witty, independent, intelligent or beautiful than Isobel.

But it is this intensity of love, and the lifetime spent without it, that frightens him. _After all, she is a Crawley._ It is this thought that drives him to the cupboard, where he extracts the bottle of single malt acquired on his last holiday to Edinburgh.

… _And Crawleys have a habit of dying suddenly and unexpectedly._ He pours himself a dram, downs it in one and hastily pours another. His thoughts run to Sybil, so young and full of passion and promise, her light put out in an instant due to paternal pride and medical negligence, her daughter left motherless. And Matthew, who survived the war and rallied from injuries that would have stolen a lesser man's will to live only to lose his life within hours of gaining a son.

If they had slipped away so suddenly, what was to say the same fate would not befall Isobel? And how would he go on without her?

It is in this circle that his thoughts run, going over the progression from the moment of their meeting to the senseless deaths of those close to her, his helplessness to prevent them. In his mind's eye he pictures her dark eyes smiling at him, her hair fanned out across his pillow while their bodies move as one … and then in a flash he sees an image of himself on his knees beside a coffin in the rain, completely alone. _Hers. I could lose her._

* * *

 ***Borrowed from Isobel in the Downton finale, when Violet suggests she's in love with Lord Merton (gag me, but I must give credit where it is due). Isobel's precise words are, "Am I? That phrase conjures up for me dance cards and stolen kisses and Mama waiting below in a carriage, not two old fuddy-duddies who can barely manage the stairs."**


	3. I'll hold you for the rest of my life

**A/N: Thank you for all of the wonderful reviews. I have the best readers ever! Chapter title is courtesy of Sir Paul McCartney's beautiful song "Calico Skies," which, I believe, perfectly expresses the way Richard loves Isobel.**

 **xx,**

 **~ejb~**

* * *

He has drunk half the bottle of scotch when he hears a rustling on the stairs, followed by soft whimpers. Instantly, if unsteadily, he is on his feet, meeting her on the landing. She is pale and trembling, her cheeks tear-stained.

"Dear God, Isobel! Why are you out of bed, love?" He pulls her to him, noting that she is drenched with perspiration.

"I can't sleep, Richard. I just … can't." He bids her sit next to him on the landing and swipes at her tears with the pad of his thumb.

"How is the pain, darling?" He squeezes her hand in his to get her attention. "Be honest with me."

She closes her eyes, biting her lip and confesses, "It's unbearable. I can't keep still."

He nods, assimilating the information. "Are you too hot? Too cold?"

"Both," comes her small, thin, tired voice. "First one and then the other. I'm so sorry …" She repeats her apology from earlier and his heart lurches. She is accustomed to being a tower of strength for those around her. He imagines how small she must feel now, unable to marshal her own body.

"Come, now, none of that. We'll sort it. I want you to wait here, love. I won't be but a moment."

She gives a grunt of affirmation and leans back against the wall. He makes his way upstairs and runs a tepid bath, setting out a lightweight nightdress for her. He fetches his medical bag before returning to her side.

She uses him for stability, clinging to him as they make their way upstairs to the lavatory, all pretense of pride gone out the window now. For his part he realizes that she's done it again, that glorious thing she does for him that no one else can. Without her even knowing it, she has brought him back from the brink of self-destruction. Typically, she accomplishes this by way of words or through her touch; this time she's done it with her need of him.

"I've run the bath for you, darling, but first things first." Withdrawing a bottle from his bag, he extracts a tablet and hands it to her.

"Luminal*," she says. She knows it well.

"Yes," he answers. "It seems high time. You should start to feel the effects in half an hour. Let's get you into the bath, shall we?"

She swallows the tablet and nods. Stepping into the lavatory she notes the nightdress and dressing gown he has laid out for her, the towel (a new one, made of the softest cotton she's ever felt against her skin) and flannel and soap. He has thought of _everything_ , and she could kiss him for it if she weren't so ill. She treasures up the feeling of being completely and utterly cherished and tucks it away inside her heart. She _will_ thank him for it later.

He steps up behind her and she turns, her arms going around him. "Could you do with a bit of assistance?" he asks.

She gives a grateful half-smile. "Yes, please." He helps her undress and step into the tub and watches with a smile as she leans against the backrest, her eyes slipping shut.

"Is it alright then?"

She nods, her lips curving into a smile. "It's perfect, darling. Thank you." She reaches for his hand and he extends it, their fingers twining together under the water as he kneels beside the tub. She is hazy with pain and bone-deep fatigue but a rush of gratitude overwhelms her. Knowing no other way to express it she takes his hand and presses it over her heart.

A lump forms in his throat and he has to look away. Her skin is soft and warm, her heartbeat steady and strong beneath his fingertips. There is no way she could have known it, but this is exactly what he needs. _She's here,_ the voice inside him sings. It is easier to believe with her here before him that all is well. When he is _doing_ for her the haunting thoughts are held at bay.

They speak softly, trading endearments. She languishes under his touch as he bathes her, savoring the feel of his fingers massaging her scalp as he washes her hair. When he is finished he dries her with such tender reverence that tears fall silently down her cheeks.

"It will all look better with rest," he soothes, running the pads of his thumbs over her cheekbones. _He isn't wrong_ , she thinks. _Oh, how I love him._ He works the towel over her hair until it is nearly dry and then brushes it out and _God, it feels so good._ She could get used to this.

They walk through the bedroom and he turns, taking her hands in his. "I'd like to keep you downstairs where it's cooler," he tells her, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.

She is far too weary to protest and besides, being in bed certainly didn't do her any favors, so she trails behind him, her hand held loosely in his. He waits until she is settled on the couch and drapes her dressing gown over her legs - the fabric is of a far lighter weight than that of a blanket. She is feeling the effects of the Luminal he gave her, and just before the world fades to black she brings his hand to her lips.

"I love you, Richard. So very much, my darling."

She is asleep before she can hear his reply. "I love you, precious one."

 **oOoOo**

This time he does not stray far from her. He knows that she would get after him if she knew he'd not had supper - particularly with the volume of drink in his system - and so he fixes a sandwich and a cup of tea. He settles into the armchair that faces the couch and tries to read the day's paper but finds his eyes keep straying to her. He is relieved to find her sleeping soundly now, her peaceful appearance a siren song luring him closer. He goes and sits on the floor beside the sofa, gently running the tips of his fingers over her forehead, her cheeks. She doesn't stir. He kneels before her, observing the way her long lashes fan out across her cheeks. He presses his lips to her brow in a whisper of a kiss.

 _She is_ _ **so**_ _beautiful._

The years have been kind to Isobel, despite the tragedy she has endured. There is not a hint of it in her dark, expressive eyes, the golden caramel of her hair or the proud manner in which she carries herself. She has the appearance of a far younger woman, and he thinks he knows why.

 _She's always been loved well._

He lifts her sleeping form into his arms and arranges the two of them on the couch so that her head rests over his heart. She sighs and snuggles in closer and he grins. Who is he that she should be at peace in his embrace?

He doesn't have the answer. Can he care for her as astutely as did Matthew, or Reginald? If love were all it took to keep her then she'd be set for life, but how can he protect her when he cannot see the future, when he doesn't know what she needs protecting _from?_

All his anxieties vanish in a heartbeat when she turns her head, burying her face in the crook of his neck. He does not know why she feels safe with him, but it's clear that she _does._ Her warm breath against his skin, her warm, soft body in his arms … his eyelids grow heavy. He leans his head back and gives in. The questions without answer can wait another day.

 **oOoOo**

She wakes with her head in his lap and feels his fingers carding through her hair. She smiles. She can always tell when he has need of her, for it is then that he will thread his fingers through her hair, comforting himself she supposes. Well there is no need of it now; she is present and awake and while she still feels a bit lethargic in the wake of the headache, she is well enough to attend to him, to show him how grateful she is for his tender care of her.

Rolling onto her back, she looks up to see him gazing unfocused toward the window which is still enshrouded by the drawn curtains.

"Darling," she whispers hoarsely, and it is then that she discovers her mouth feels as if it has been stuffed with cotton wool. Clearing her throat, she reaches up to touch his face and tries again. "Richard."

When he looks down at her, his eyes shine with what looks an awful lot like relief. "Well, look who's decided to rejoin the land of the living! How do you feel?"

She caresses the line of his jaw, noting the stubble covering his face. "I'm rather parched," she croaks, "but the pain is gone."

"Sit up for a moment, love," he urges, bringing her arms around his neck and pulling her upright. Rising momentarily, he pours her a glass of water from the pitcher he'd left on the table beside them. He watches the movement of her throat as she gulps down the contents as if she's been dragged through the desert.

She sighs gratefully. "Much better, thank you. Now, where were we?" She lays her head in his lap once more and watches him. He resumes stroking her hair and working the tips of his fingers along her temples.

"I love the way that feels, Richard," she sighs.

That breaks through his thoughts and he looks down at her, their eyes meeting at last. She's heard it said that the eyes are the windows to the soul, and it has never rung truer than in this moment when she looks into his.

He says nothing. He doesn't need to. She sees it all.

 _I was frightened, Isobel. Suppose there comes a day when I_ _ **can't**_ _cure you? I couldn't live without you,_ a ghràidh, _my wife. My only love._

She sits up, hiking up the hem of her nightdress so she can straddle his lap. Later they will need to talk, but now …

* * *

 ***Luminal - the drug phenobarbital was branded Luminal by Bayer in 1912 and, until the 1960's, was used primarily as a sedative. Today it is used in the treatment of juvenile epilepsy and _status epilepticus_ in both adult and pediatric patients. There is some information that suggests that the ergotamines (forerunners of migraine drugs such as Imitrex) were in use in the 1920's, but it is difficult to determine whether migraine headaches were recognized until later as distinct from other types of headaches. In the interest of accuracy I decided to go with an attempt to stop the pain with headache powders and, once they failed (which they likely would've, with a migraine), the use of a sedative. Ultimately the best treatment for migraine has always been sleep.**


	4. Drown me in love

**A/N: Your reviews are life-giving. I'm so happy you're enjoying this fic! We have reached our cruising altitude and you may now unfasten your safety belts. Isobel's fine. And now she's going to show Richard just how fine she is. Hey, it's me. We all knew I was gonna go there, didn't we?**

 **Chapter title courtesy of Matt Nathanson's lovely, provocative song "Come On Get Higher." Yes, I listened to it for inspiration. Many times. And you should, too. I would quote large blocks of it herein but despite the fact that I've done it before I've started to wonder about quoting modern music in period fic. Just go listen to it and think of Isobel and Richard for me, would you please? ;)**

 ***NSFW and now rated M. For reasons.***

 **xx,**

 **~ejb~**

* * *

"Richard," she speaks assuredly, cradling his face in her hands. She says it again. "Richard. I'm _here_ , darling. I'm right as rain now, thanks to you." Cupping his chin in her hand, she looks into his eyes. "I'm yours." She kisses the corner of his mouth and her warm breath makes him gasp. She nips hungrily at his lips. "Say it."

He answers her after biting at her lower lip frantically. "You're here. You're _here_." She nods. He steals another heated kiss."You're mine."

"Yes," she affirms. She grasps his hands, weaving her fingers through his. Looking into his eyes, she resolves to banish the darkness lurking behind their blue brilliance.

He feels it again, her hot little puffs of breath on his lips and despite the number of times they have kissed it still makes him giddy, the anticipation of her beautiful mouth on his.

Her lower lip brushes against his upper and the tip of her tongue sweeps the underside. He moans loudly. He tastes of single malt and it compounds her understanding of _just_ how dark a turn his thoughts had taken during the course of her infirmity.

"I'm here," she whispers into his mouth, so that he consumes her words between kisses. "I'm _here._ Touch me, Richard."

Her words, provocative and sweet, erase his apprehension at approaching her too hastily and she makes a sound somewhere between contented sigh and desirous gasp when his warm hands slide beneath her nightdress to meet the bare skin of her back. He kisses her, his mouth opening hers, and she answers his fervor, stroking his face with the backs of her fingers.

She continues to touch his face as their lips part. He is breathing heavily and his eyes are wild, as if searching for something the origins of which he cannot place.

"My darling, what is it? I'm _here_ ," she repeats again. "It's all right, love. Tell me." She works to keep her voice steady and calm despite the rising turmoil inside her. Never has she seen him like this. He looks lost, she thinks. _He looks haunted._

"Come to bed with me," he pleads. "Be with me. Let me feel you." At those words a frisson of longing coils in her belly even as her heart lurches at the desperation in his eyes, his voice.

"Yes," she answers, kissing him searchingly, as if trying to pour into it all her love for him. She rises from his lap and stands, beckoning to him with an outstretched hand. "Come."

He pauses to look at her as she glances back over her shoulder at him with those great, dark eyes, and he allows himself a moment to imprint the image of her on his mind for posterity. There it is again; the thought he supposes he thinks with greater frequency than any other.

 _She is_ _ **so**_ _beautiful._

She wonders at the delay until she sees the intensity of his gaze. She thinks for a moment that he is trying to consume her. There is a sudden rush of wetness at her center. Will she ever tire of the heady feeling of knowing he wants her?

"Richard." The sound of her voice breaks him out of his reverie. "Come."

Time slows, compresses as he trails behind her. His breath catches in his lungs as he tracks her movements - the swing of her hips and the curve of her neck, the bouncing waves of her hair. This woman, _his_ woman. He could _lose_ her. The thought had never crossed his mind until she was taken ill, and now it won't leave him alone.

She sees it, the instant fear pulls out ahead of longing, and she backs him up against the wall in the corridor outside their bedroom. "Darling," she compels him, taking hold of his lapels, "love me." Taking his hand, she presses an open-mouthed kiss to the center of his palm and places it over her heart, over the swell of her breast.

Their eyes meet. Hers smile at him and his flash indigo with desire.

"Warm," he murmurs, cupping her breast through the thin fabric of her nightdress. "Beautiful." He nudges her knees apart with his thigh, rubbing himself against her. "My Bel." He drops his head into the rounded corner where her neck and shoulder meet and kisses her, trailing lips and tongue up and over the column of her throat to her mouth.

"Richard," she pants as his lips release hers, "bed."

Behind the closed door of their room, time stands still again as she walks toward the bed, lifting the hem of her nightdress. Crossing her arms in front of herself she pulls the garment up and off, dropping it on the chair beside her. She stands unabashedly bare before him, _for him_ , moving with smooth grace as she turns back the covers. When she looks up he is beside her.

She smiles, blinking at him as she watches his eyes rake over her body from head to toe.

"Undress me," he rasps, his brogue markedly thick. A thrill runs up her spine at the way his tongue wraps around the 'r,' and she begins with the buttons at his shirtfront, followed by his cuffs. When she has them undone she places her palms flat against his chest and parts the fabric, pushing it off his shoulders. The day is hot and they are at home so he wears no vest beneath. The rasp of his chest hair under her fingertips raises gooseflesh on her skin. She bends her head, pressing her forehead to his heart. It is a blessing and a promise.

 _I will never leave you._

Then she kisses him there and a sob catches in his throat. She works open his trousers, pulling them and his shorts down his legs and off. She lies down, holding her arms out to him, and he is struck by how young she looks, the olive of her skin so warm against the white sheets, her dark lashes framing even darker eyes.

He lies down next to her and as they come into one another's arms both of them gasp at the sensation of skin on skin. He watches, mesmerized, as she tips her head back and laughs at them both.

"It feels so good to be with you like this," she says throatily. With earnest eyes she tells him, "I want you so much."

Her words, her warmth, her half-lidded eyes; the velvety feel of her skin assault his senses, need coursing through his body.

"Isobel," he intones, moving his hand to the back of her knee to pull her leg over his hip, insinuating his leg between hers. She hooks both her legs around his, pressing his thigh hard into her. She grinds herself against him, all writhe and stretch; soft warm skin and softer curves and glorious heat.

Now he is the one whose head is spinning, the one seeing stars.

"Richard," she whispers, reaching up to touch his face. She smooths the pad of her thumb across his bottom lip and when he kisses it she moans.

His hands are everywhere, as if he can't decide where to touch her first, and every brush of his fingertips and press of his palms has her gasping. He pulls her on top of him and sucks at the pulse pounding in her throat. She hears every word he cannot say.

 _I need to feel you here with me. Your heartbeat, your warmth. I need to hear you cry out to me, to know that I can answer you. I_ _ **need**_ _you._

She meets him with searing kisses, palms pressing against his chest, hips rolling into him. She slides her hands around his back to pull him up so that he sits against the headboard.

He cradles her head in his hands and she arches toward him, exposing the column of her throat to his explorations. She exhales a high-pitched cry as the sharp edges of his teeth meet her skin and sighs as his tongue soothes the sting.

He spends long moments tracing a line from the hollow at the base of her throat down between her breasts and back with his fingertips, his eyes darkening as he watches her nipples stiffen. His erection trapped between them surges against her when she arches her back, thrusting her breasts toward him. He brings his hands up under them and sucks at the soft flesh, exhaling hot breaths across the peaks.

She pulls at his hair, murmuring half-nonsense while thinking, with the far corner of her mind that is still conscious of the existence of words other than "Yes" and "More," that he needs to know how right this is, what he is doing to her, _for_ her. "Richard," she pants, "your touch, darling … The way you love me … _God,_ it's perfect!"

He draws a nipple between his lips, rolling it against the roof of his mouth, pulling hard at her. She cries out sharply, her fingers curling into his scalp. She reaches a hand down between them, cupping him in her palm so that as she writhes in response to his ministrations the length of him slides along her folds. The sounds she is making are altogether indecent, and so is the utterance that slips from his mouth, spoken against her breast as her wet heat brushes his erection. They lose themselves in the soft grind until the friction of him against her and the bite of his teeth on her nipples has her screaming.

"Yes, my beauty! Come on." His mouth moves to her ear, sucking the lobe, and her head falls forward into his shoulder. And then he _feels_ it, tiny pulses of her sex against his as she comes, sobbing and sucking at his skin. _Yes, beautiful girl … for me … for_ _ **me**_ _… coming apart for me._

He caresses her tenderly, kissing her face as she recovers. He lays her down, settling himself behind her, and his hands bless her body. Touching to soothe, to admire. To arouse. She loves it all, needs it all, needs _him._ She stretches, feeling her body's fatigue in the wake of the headache, feeling her body's need of him, the way she presses back into him instinctually. His hardness against her bottom - he is hard because of her. _For her._ She needs gentle, she needs him deep. She just _needs_ him. She knows he knows exactly what she needs. Knows better than she.

The sound that escapes her mouth when he massages her breasts is wholly undignified and he thinks he has never heard anything so beautiful. "I want you, Isobel," he tells her, a half-whisper in her ear as his fingertips brush the tender flesh of her abdomen, the muscles jumping at his touch.

"Yes," she cries, rolling her hips back against him. Current runs under her skin at the feel of him _there_ , just there and her breath catches as he lifts her leg to rest atop his. She is so _open_ like this. He doesn't need to touch her to know that she is ready. He doesn't _need_ to, but he does, and the observations he whispers as his teeth work her earlobe are positively licentious. His fingers slip against her folds and he feels the way her body tenses, all anticipation.

His knee nudges hers forward and he takes himself in hand. He pushes into her in one deep thrust, tearing a ragged scream from her throat. His hand holds her hip, fingertips pressing hard. _Marking me_ , she thinks, and moves her hand atop his. _Let it be so._

The headache that has left her overly sensitive to light, sound and temperature has also heightened her tactile sensitivity, so that the feel of him filling her has tears spilling down her cheeks, and her nipples are so hard it almost hurts as he rolls and pulls and teases. Neither her mouth nor her mind can form words, so she just gasps and moves with him and links her fingers through his.

"Is this what you need, my Bel?" he breathes, and it's deliciously hot on her skin. She nods, craning her neck to kiss his mouth. His physician's fingers move expertly, trailing fire where he touches, but it's the movement of him within her that has her breathless. _How can it_ _ **be**_ _like this?_

"Richard," she groans long and deep. She's never felt him so acutely. He is in every pore of her skin now; he is in her blood, her bones. She feels raw, shattered, utterly vulnerable. _Oh, darling, my husband, what_ _ **is**_ _this? Don't stop, don't ever stop … it's never … I've never—_

He rolls her forward, half onto her stomach so that he lies nearly on top of her, and the new angle is intense. "There … just there … God _yes_ … oh, love …"

It's a lot her body's been through and she doesn't know whether she'll come again, and she doesn't care. This, the way he moves, the way she _feels_ him is better, visceral in its intensity. _Just don't stop … don't ever stop … I love you … I love this …_

The sounds she's making are unlike any he has heard from her before, almost primal, and he can't believe he has her, is _with_ her, like this … hot and tight and sleek and soft and _**his**_ _._ His woman, his _wife … Isobel, 'consecrated to God' … Otherworldly, she is. The feel of her and the way she moves and Christ, just let me hold on, let me stay with her …_ _ **with**_ _her, in her, I need her …_

She sobs. She cannot manage anything else. She needs him like this, never wants it to end, wants to feel him deep and full and touching her soul forever, but she hasn't the strength to withstand much more. She doesn't want to tell him, is afraid of how he'll take it.

But she needn't be. He knows. Knows the physical state she's in, knows also that he can wring another climax out of her even if she doesn't think so. He takes her hand in his, drawing their fingertips down over her abdomen, past her hips, through her soft curls to brush against her _there._ Touching her together. It's highly erotic, and they both feel her walls clench at the thought.

"Show me," he commands.

Her fingertips trace feather-light circles and she sighs as he continues to move. He mirrors her touch and the simple fact that he's doing _this_ with her has her arching and writhing and he smiles against her, knows this movement pattern means she's close.

His touch, _their_ touch, the surge of him within her as their hips roll. She's so tired and she's strung so tight and she can't, she just _can't—_

And then she does, gasping and shaking, silvery flashes in front of her eyes again and still he moves within her _just there_ , splits her soul wide open. It doesn't _stop,_ and the words that tumble from her lips are obscenely beautiful and he thrills at them, knowing only he has ever heard, will ever hear them.

He stills inside her when it ends, gathering her into his arms, caressing her tenderly. "Isobel … _my Bel_ … you are so beautiful," he murmurs softly, lips close to her ear. They are silent, breathing together as she recovers and feels him surrounding her and just _feels._

"I need to see you," she manages at last. She cries out at the momentary loss of him as they switch positions, then sighs happily as he kneels before her, his lips trailing kisses along the insides of her thighs. He settles himself in the cradle of her hips, the head of him poised at her entrance.

Her dark eyes, which were closed, open upon his and he knows he'll never forget the wildly unfocused look in them. "Do it."

How she can command him with a whisper, he'll never know, but as he surges forward and her hips rise to meet him he just knows he is lost to her, hopelessly and joyously so. Their cries mingle, his name on her lips and her name on his.

"Richard," she breathes, "here. Come here." She opens her arms to him and he rests his weight upon her, their foreheads touching. She kisses him, teasing his lips apart, moaning into his mouth as he deepens the kiss. This is not new to them and yet somehow she has never felt so close to him as she does in this moment.

"Love me," she whispers as their lips part, her conviction making his heart pound. There are no words for all she feels, but he knows. He gasps as her hands drift to his bottom, holding his hips to hers. "Love me, love me, love me …"

"Isobel …" It's all he says, and he pulls back and then thrusts deep. And again, and she pushes up and up and up against him. " _God,_ " he exclaims, "good, so good, my beauty." He drops his head into the crook of her neck and whispers the rest against her skin and laughter bubbles up from deep inside her, pure joy at being here with him like this, _loved_ like this, his wife and his heart and his confidante.

And then she says the words he needs. "I want you to let go for me." She reaches down to touch him where he moves in and out of her. "Let go, let go, let go."

" _Jesus,_ " he grunts, biting down on her shoulder. It's so uncharacteristically undignified of him and she thrills at the sight and sound, the _feel_ of him undone for her, because of her, hard and strong and tender and beautiful and _**hers.**_

He sucks on her neck and babbles against her skin and she feels his rhythm break. His breathing becomes erratic and she squeezes her inner muscles around him and he thrusts hard once, twice more and shouts his release, flooding her with warmth.

With what little strength remains he rolls them over, still inside her, settling her along the length of his body. She is utterly spent and he wants the connection but refuses to put any additional physical demands on her. She caresses his chest and kisses him where her head rests over his heart. He traces the length of her spine, mapping her vertebrae.

She raises her head to look at him and he kisses her. "I love you, my Richard," she whispers. "Sleep now."


	5. I'll look after you

**A/N: Lovely readers, we have reached the conclusion of this story. Thanks ever so much for sticking with me. Your reviews have been magnificent. In this chapter I pay homage to the Ever Decreasing Circles episode Jumping to Conclusions by co-opting a conversation between Ann and Martin. I hope I've done it justice; EDC fans, you'll have to let me know. Chapter title is courtesy of "Look After You" by The Fray. Despite my doubt about the propriety of including modern music in period fic, I've quoted a potion of the lyrics below because they're just too perfect _not_ to use ... or at least, I think they are.**

 **xx,**

 **~ejb~**

* * *

 _ **If ever there was a doubt  
**_ _ **My love she leans into me  
**_ _ **This most assuredly counts  
**_ _ **She says most assuredly**_

 _ **-The Fray, "Look After You"**_

 **oOoOo**

She awakens to the feel of him pressed close behind her. His arm is around her waist, his breath warm on her bare shoulder. She blinks the room into focus. _What time might it be?_ She had lost all sense of time when the headache struck. _What_ _ **day**_ _might it be, for that matter?_ Had she lost one whilst she slept and woke and hurt and slept again? She shakes her head, attempting to puzzle it out. It's now morning proper, whatever day it might be, she determines from the angle of the shadows and the calls of the robins.

"Isobel." He whispers close to her ear and his thumb traces circles where it rests against her stomach. She begins to turn in his arms but he stops her. "No, stay there, love."

She smiles in comprehension and stretches, turning over her shoulder to kiss him as her toes brush the length of his calf. She holds the side of his head to her long enough for a thorough kiss before dropping her own head back down on the pillow. She pushes back into him as he snuggles in closer to her and sighs as his fingers explore her bare torso. It's a warm, silent, skin-on-skin communion as she listens to the sounds of their breathing.

"I love you," she murmurs. She can feel the press of his groin against her bottom as she stretches again, involuntarily pushing back against him, and she moans throatily.

"And I love you." He brushes her hair aside and places long, open-mouthed kisses on the back of her neck.

She squirms with the desire to see his eyes and kiss his mouth, to bury her face in his neck, but she can sense he needs this contact with her body. "Tell me what you love about this," she says.

"I love the feel of you … close to me … soft and warm." He draws the tips of his fingers down her side, coming to rest on her hip, holding her to him. "I love the way _this_ feels." He rolls his hips forward to press against her bottom.

" _Yes_ ," she agrees. "Are you thinking of the way we made love last night?" She moves her hips in tiny circles, the slow burn of arousal beginning to swirl low in her belly.

"I am." Both of his arms come around her and his hands cup her breasts.

"Richard …" she gasps. She is trying to keep her wits about her, but when he touches her like that her thoughts run quickly to _Yes … God … there._ "Do you want me now?"

"I always want you." He rolls her nipples between his fingers as their hips circle against one another's.

"... But it isn't what you need now, is it?" she intuits.

"Would you mind terribly if I touch you now? —"

"—And make love later?" she finishes for him. His moustache brushes the back of her neck as he kisses her there and she feels him smile. She shivers pleasantly. "'Would I mind?' Darling, I love what you do to me." She arches into his hands and loses herself in his touch. "Oh, Richard …" she moans gutturally. She feels so _much_ for him, with him. There's a conversation coming and she wants to hold back all she feels until then.

"I love you," she begins to murmur. He is tracing indiscernible patterns on the tender flesh of her inner thighs and she can't keep still or silent. "I love you … I love you … Let me hold you. _Please._ "

"Come here, beauty," he agrees, rolling her onto her back. He settles his weight upon her and she stretches beneath him, her palms gliding down his sides.

"Richard," she sighs contentedly. _I make her happy,_ he thinks, incredulous. He lowers himself onto his elbows and she cries out as his chest presses against hers. She reaches up to touch his face and he kisses each of her fingertips. Slowly, gently, he kisses her lips and she hums into his mouth. She is so _sweet,_ so responsive, her hands moving on his body as they kiss softly.

She cradles his face in her hands and draws back to look at him. When she looks into his eyes she thinks she understands part of the reason he was hesitant to be face-to-face with her.

"What is it?" she whispers, running the backs of her fingers over the contours of his face. "What's troubling you, my darling?" She reaches up to kiss him and he answers with hungry mouth, his hands winding into her hair.

He closes his eyes. It's easier this way, he reckons. If he doesn't have to look at her, the words are less likely to catch in his throat.

"I haven't said many things to you, have I?" he begins. His voice breaks and he swallows hard.

"Well, I wouldn't say that," she replies, running a hand through his hair.

"No, no, I mean … things about what I feel for you. I haven't said them enough. I meant to … but I haven't. You know … things." He swallows again, and she could swear there are tears in the corners of his eyes.

"We've got plenty of time," she soothes, smiling prettily, blinking up at him.

"Have we?" he whispers brokenly, caressing her cheek.

"Oh, my darling man." She draws him down and kisses him and holds him to her. He revels in her sweet warmth, trailing his lips across her throat and the ridges of her collarbones.

She holds him and allows herself to be held silently. His hands wander over her rib cage, her breasts and she gasps, her lips reaching for his in a searing kiss. When he pulls back they are both flushed and breathing heavily.

"I don't suppose I ever really thought I'd find myself a wife," he says at last, in a near-whisper that she feels against her skin. "And then fate stepped in … divine intervention … call it what you like ... I suppose I stopped dreaming long ago - not much room for it in medicine, after all - but one day I looked up and there you were."

"Trouble, with a capital 't.'" She smiles impishly.

He rolls his eyes at this, but her smile is contagious and he finds he can't hold back a grin of his own. "Perhaps … just a bit … at times," he hedges, and when she raises an eyebrow he laughs. "Oh, all right … yes, you're rather like a tempest in a teapot, my beauty."

"There it is." Her eyes twinkle as she leans up to kiss him, swatting his bottom playfully. He responds by pulling her hips flush against his and nipping at her lips.

"At any rate," he continues when they break apart, "it would seem that your brand of trouble is precisely what was missing from my life." She watches as his eyes go from dancing to clouded in a flash. In a broken whisper he confesses, "You're _everything,_ Isobel. I'm not letting you go."

"Darling …" she answers around the lump in her own throat, "you'll never have to! We did promise 'till death us do part,' after all."

"Yes, well … It's not lost on me that you're a Crawley."

She blinks. _There's the rub._ A dark corner of her soul feels those words like a slap across the face. But they've got at long last to the heart of the matter, and for that she is grateful. "Well I'm not, you know." She smiles cheekily at him. "I'm a Turnbull. Sturdy stock, we are. Made of stern stuff." She smiles up at him and kisses him soundly. "What's got you thinking like this, love? It's quite unlike a man of medicine to give free rein to his imagination."

He rolls them over, bringing her to straddle his lap as he sits back against the headboard. The sunlight filtering in through the curtains picks up the glints of gold in her hair and he runs his fingers through it, mesmerized.

"Indeed it is," he agrees. He ducks his head to nip at her shoulder and she runs her fingertips across the short hairs at the nape of his neck. "In all the time I've known you, this was the first time I'd ever seen you ill. You'll think me absurd but I suppose the notion that you were fallible had never occurred to me before."

She smiles again, running a hand through his hair. _He's right,_ she realizes, _at least partially so._ She hasn't often been infirm. _Nor has he, for that matter_. "We've not been given cause to worry about such things, have we?" she remarks. "How fortunate we've been, really. Both of us." She presses the tip of her index finger to the center of his chin and holds his eyes with her own. "And we've no reason to think that such good fortune won't continue."

He wraps her tightly in his arms and she bows her head, forehead resting against his shoulder. He rocks them gently and feels the beating of her heart where it presses against his own. _Only you, Isobel,_ he thinks. _Only you would view the last few years through the lens of good fortune. You alone could lose it all and find a silver lining._

"You're thinking far too loudly, Richard," she says after several minutes.

"Sorry, love. It's only that there aren't many who would see themselves in such a light after losing all you've lost."

"Would you like to know why it is that I feel this way?"

"Something tells me I'm going to find out regardless of my answer," he says teasingly. She boxes his ears in playful retaliation. "Alright, alright … I give! Do enlighten me, beauty."

She backs up enough that they can look into one another's eyes properly and takes his hands, placing them on her hips. "It may not have been an illness responsible for the state I was in after Matthew died, but I've never been nearer to death than I was then. So whilst you're flogging yourself for some fantastical inability to save me … know that you already have done. Richard, I wouldn't be alive today were it not for you." Two fat teardrops roll down her cheeks and he presses his lips to each one in turn, kissing them away.

"So you see," she continues, her voice breaking, "I've full confidence that I can survive anything … so long as I have you to look after me."

"Isobel," he breathes, his emotions close to the surface. What can he say? He can't shake the feeling that she was created specifically to love him. This theory flies in the face of all the rationalism and science upon which he has built his life, but how else could it be that she always knows precisely what to do, what words to say to put his mind at ease?

"You don't have to say anything, darling. Just know that in all my life, never did I imagine I would be loved the way you love me."

He cups her chin in his hand, tilting her face up. He watches her eyes slip shut in anticipation of his kiss. _Without a doubt,_ he concludes. _Made for me._

Silence stretches out between them, long and golden as lips meet and tongues tangle, their exclamatory breaths and soft moans the only sounds in the room. When at last the need for oxygen forces them apart she falls back against the mattress, drawing him down with her until his head is pillowed on her breast. "I know that there are answers you want and I can't give them to you," she says as she runs her palms across his back. "I only know that I've never known joy … or love … or hope the likes of which I've had since I've been loving you. I wish that was enough for you. I know it isn't, but I wish it was." She kisses the top of his head.

It's less than perfection and so much more than either of them ever expected. He glides his palm over her breast, pressing a kiss to the soft flesh. "It's all the answer I need, sweet girl. Still, though … you'll always take care of yourself, won't you?"

She lifts his chin so that his eyes meet hers. "The older I get, the more care I'll take." Smiling, she kisses his lips in assurance. "As if you'd allow me to get away with anything less, hmm?"

"Quite right," he answers with a grin. "Now, you know I'm not the sort of man who likes to start something and then not finish."

For a fraction of a second she regards him with a look of confusion, but as his warm palms press against her back to draw her closer, his lips descending on her neck, realization dawns vividly.

" _Would you mind terribly if I touch you now? —" he'd asked._

"— _And make love later?" she had finished his thought._

"Mmmm," she sighs, rolling her hips against him. "It's later."

"It is indeed," he replies, his eyes atwinkle as he rolls them over and her hair cascades in wild waves across his pillow.

Neither knows how numerous will be their days together. A time may well come when he cannot heal her or she, him. But what is certain is that for every day they do have together they will love one another to the utmost - body and mind, heart and soul.


End file.
